Veritaserum
by BellaPur
Summary: Writing challenge 24 on the Bellatrix Lestrange Forum. Prompt: Prompts Theodore accidentally swallows some veritaserum.


**For Liz (Tuesday November)'s Prompts Challenge **

**And Margrethe (PieceOfGum)'s prompt **

**_Prompt:_ A character of choice(Though I'd prefer one from the dark side) getting veritaserum in one way or another**

**_Must haves:_ Shocking revelations :P**

**_Mustn't haves:_ Boring clichés, OOC secrets, like Voldemort having a lovechild with Luna Lovegood, or Yaxley being a DA member in diguise... Keep serious and original, folks! :**

"Theodore?"

Who is it? I can barely see them. I suppose that's a side effect of the awkward position I'm in, on a heap on the floor. I suppose _that's_ a side effect of drinking so much. Merlin, I don't even know what I've drunk.

It's foolish. Impulsive. Crazy. Not like me at all.

And I don't care.

"Theodore are you drunk?"

Pansy's shocked face looks down at me. How she got into my house, I don't know.

"Yes."

I reply almost instantly. The words leave my lips in a monotone, but inside part of me sparks with desire. Not desire for Pansy herself (Lord no!), but a desire to answer her.

Oh shit.

I honestly don't know what I've drunk. I stopped noticing soon after I lost count. I never do that. I'm always in control. I don't think I've ever been drunk before. Not properly drunk. Not really drunk.

Certainly not _this_ drunk.

So I don't have alot of experience in the symptoms of drunken-ness. But I'm pretty sure an overwhelming urge to tell the truth isn't one of them.

Again. Shit.

I pray she won't notice, I pray she'll keep her big mouth shut.

Pansy Parkinson finds you paralytic on the floor of your own ballroom, which she has somehow managed to enter despite the numerous protective charms that surround the manor, and she's not going to ask you any questions. Yes Theodore. That's perfectly plausible.

"What's wrong with you?"

Oh shit. Oh shit shit shit shit double shit.

Don't answer don't answer don't answer!

"Tracey proposed and I turned her down and I regretted it so I drank alot of alcohol."

Oh no, oh no, oh no! This can't be happening. This is all a dream. A terrifying horrendous horrible dream and I'm going to wake up any second.

Pansy is gobsmacked. Her mouth hangs open like a panting crup's. Her bob swings round her face as she shakes her head in disbelief.

"What? Tracey Davis? She- She proposed? To you?"

"Yes and yes."

"But why?"

"Because she loves me and I love her."

Traitorous monotonous voice!

Her mouth gets wider, if that's even possible.

"But- You- She-!"

This is good. Illegible stuttering. No questions.

"If you love her why did you say no?"

Oh shit.

"Because my Mother wouldn't have liked it."

No no no! I can't be saying this!

"Your Mother wouldn't have liked it?" Pansy is now convinced I'm mental. I'm not sure I don't agree with her. "But why should that stop you?"

If I could I would glare at her. But I can't. All I can do is gaze blankly up at her and bare my soul in the dullest, most uninterested voice I've ever produced in my life.

"I want to do what she would want. I've spent my life trying to be the perfect son. When I was little I used to pretend if I was good, if I did everything right, she'd come back and she wouldn't be dead."

Pansy gives a little gasp of sympathy. She gets to her knees and crawls over to me. She raises my shoulders so my head lolls onto her lap and begins to stroke my hair.

If I could I would hex her in the face.

"She was so committed to purity. She would tell me stories about my Aunty Rosaline who was killed when she was just fourteen by aurors who were determined to do the "right thing" and make life good for the mudbloods. Who cared if one little witch got caught up in their ridiculous campaign. She was so proud of the fact Father was a Death Eater. I sometimes think that might be why she married him. 'Cos he was part of something that was done with taking orders from mudbloods and muggle-lovers and their ilk. Her brother Evan was one too. He died as well. All the Rosiers died. But when she died it was the worst of all. So I can't marry Tracey. I can't marry a halfblood. My Mother would start spinning in her grave."

Oh Lord.

What have I done?

Years of agony. Tears. Fear. Loneliness, all given to Pansy in a few seconds. As easily a breathing.

Selfish, spoilt, bullying Pansy, who isn't as bad as they paint her, but is nonetheless the last person I want to spill secrets onto like vomit.

I wish I could vomit now. I really feel quite ill.

Maybe it's the half bottle of Vodka coming back to haunt me. Or maybe it's the fact that she's the only person I've ever told this to.

Of course, Tracey knows. But she had to work it out. It took her seven whole years, putting together fragments of our conversations. Fragments of what other people said about me. Fragments of my shattered life.

And she understands. She knows I have to be my Mother's son. She knows her bloodline's not pure enough. She doesn't hate me for saying no.

And that's what makes it so damn hard.

She loves me. Loves me for me. Freaky, weird anti-social me. She so accepting. She's so loving. I want to kiss her. I want to make her mine. I want to marry her so badly it hurts like being punched simultaneously in the nose and solar plexus. Which hurts alot.

No, it's the vodka, I think smugly as I upchuck over Pansy's skirt.

She groans before she scourgifys the mess. As if I've ruined her entire outfit. There isn't even a stain.

I wish there was.

"You really are an idiot Theodore Nott."

Good grief, it was only a little bit of sick!

"Your Mother would want what you want. She'd want you to be happy."

"Not like that. She wouldn't want me to ruin our bloodline."

I can only tell the truth. Therefore I am right.

"Oh for the love of Magic!"

She's properly glaring at me now,

"Grow up Theodore! The world's a different place to the one she knew. You love Tracey Davis and she loves you and that's all there is to it. Now you can either stay here throwing firewhiskey and Lord knows what else down your throat or you can grow a pair, untangle yourself form the stings of your longdead Mother's apron, and get your sorry arse over to the Davis Household right bloody now.

That hurt.

She's a harsh bitch Pansy. She made more people cry over the years I've know her, than I've beat at chess. Which is alot.

But sometimes, just sometimes, a cruel bitch is just the wake up call you need.

* * *

**Reviews are love. Love me! **


End file.
